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I’m convinced that some people just feel more than others. We are tortured by things we’ve seen, done, or said. We perform exorcisms for the sake of these memories. We writhe around our pens, contort to the canvas, roll back our eyes at the sight of our words. Demons fully exorcised, our artwork lays bare. Off our backs, out of our souls. The burden released from our hearts. Those interested can gawk at our scabs torn off.